Authors: Jacques Yonnet
There are some human beings who are not bound by human laws. The sad thing is perhaps they’re not all aware of it.
Meanwhile‚ here’s an idea I volunteer: the day when the borders of Europe and elsewhere become‚ as they once were‚ open to the movement of nomadic tribes that some regard as ‘worrisome’‚ it would be interesting if researchers qualified in astronomy (yes‚ indeed)‚ with calenders and terrestrial and celestial maps to hand‚ were to examine the routes travelled by wandering Gypsies.
Maybe they’ll discover that these slow and apparently aimless journeys are related to cosmic forces. Like wars. And migrations.
The Gypsies were persecuted‚ in France and elsewhere‚ with cyclical regularity in a vicious‚ inept and stupid manner. Almost as much as the Jews. In Paris for century after century they were corralled outside the successive boundaries of the City. In 1560 they were banished by the Estates of Orleans‚ on pain of being sent to the gallows or the galleys if they dared to
show themselves again. Tolerated in a few regions riven by heresy‚ driven from other places as the descendants of Ham‚ the inventor of sorcery‚ nowhere were they regarded as anything but a menace.
Only people with a yearning for the supernatural dared to reach out to them‚ beyond walls and barriers. Nowadays‚ there are some who have become ‘respectable’‚ ‘assimilated’ – a dreadful word! – who take pains to conceal their origins‚ except from those whom they know – or sense – to have an intuitive sympathy towards them.
I can’t resist the pleasure of relating at this point a fifteenth- century legend. It relates to the effigy of a virgin that once adorned the choir of the chapel of St Aignan‚ the remains of which are still to be found in the City‚ on Rue des Ursins‚ very close to Notre-Dame.
At the window of a low-built house‚ a young girl sewed and mended her family’s clothes. Outside‚ children played beneath her gaze: her own younger brothers‚ and the neighbours’ sons. One hot afternoon a Gypsy minstrel was making his way to the parvis of St-Julien-le-Pauvre where‚ as was the custom‚ singers‚ musicians‚ storytellers‚ animal exhibitors‚ and contorsionists came to give an open-air demonstration of their talents and to hire out their services to the stewards of castles near and far.
The Gypsy stopped in the middle of a little square lined with squat houses. Attached to one of these houses was a well-head.
Women stood chatting round it. The Gypsy drew a viola from his green canvas bag. He patiently tuned it.
Attracted by the appearance of the bronze-skinned young man‚ by the bright colours of his unusual style of dress‚ by the strange shape of his instrument‚ the children came running.
The Gypsy took up a position near the young girl and observed her at length.
The maiden’s hair was braided and pinned up beside her cheeks in the fashion of the times. A white veil framed her face of such perfect beauty that its sweetness‚ refinement‚
oval purity were already legendary: had not a monk drawn inspiration from it to paint the virgin above the choir in the St Aignan chapel?
The Gypsy began to play. And the melody that filled the air was so captivating‚ so appealing‚ the sound of his instrument so ravishing that‚ stilled and reduced to silence‚ everyone there was caught in its spell: for spell there was. But it was not intended to affect the children or the women rendered speechless with wonder and admiration. The young girl realized the Gypsy was playing for her‚ and for her alone. The departure of the musician‚ who against all expectation solicited no payment for his playing‚ left her overcome with blissful languour. In her innocent mind unfamiliar dreams began to flourish.
On the following days‚ the Gypsy returned at the same time to play in the same place. His gaze grew bold enough to meet that of the young girl. He must have beheld there so much admiration‚ gratitude and amazement mingled with a desire at once fierce and ill-defined that the magic stratagem he was pursuing seemed to be favouring him. When he was sure of having won the fair child’s heart – to what demonic end? – he began to play a bizarre tune‚ at first heart-rending‚ disquieting‚ and then obsessive; ever faster but always dwelling on the same motif‚ one that seemed to want to sweep up in a frantic saraband houses‚ stones‚ sun and people.
He concluded abruptly‚ on a shrill note. Then off he went‚ very quickly‚ without looking back‚ and disappeared into the narrow streets that led towards the cathedral.
It was impossible for the young girl to conceal from her family how deep – and strange – an impression the Gypsy had made on her heart and her feelings. And her father had taken exception to the street musician’s insistance on playing his bewitching tunes outside her window. He was about to chase him away when the Gypsy left the square.
That very evening the young girl‚ succumbing to a sudden fever‚ began to shiver and grow delirious. Her mother sat at her bedside.
‘Mother‚ the Gypsy’s calling me. He draws me to him with
his violin. He plays as he walks and people come running‚ people of many colours …’
‘Those are the colours of the lingering clouds. It will be dark soon. Go to sleep.’
‘The Gypsy‚ the Gypsy‚ he’s calling me! Everyone’s dancing round him. There are so many people! I can’t see their faces. I’m going‚ I want to join him! I’m leaving. He’s calling me‚ he’s calling me!’
There was nothing to be done but to send for a priest. Even before midnight he was reciting the prayers for the dying.
No one ever knew what became of the Bohemian. Once again all foreign nomads were driven out of the City‚ with the intention they should be banished from the realm.
Many people believed that during the requiem mass they saw the pure-faced virgin above the choir in the St Aignan chapel stir‚ and her complexion darken.
And who was the German poet’s inspiration for the legend of the
Roi des Aulne
s (
Der Erl-könig
)?
Here‚ I must yield to the voice of the great Kostis Palamas:
‘Music becomes flesh and thrives in a new world‚ a new man … He‚ the last-born‚ son of music and love‚ shall arise in triumph over an ample land‚ prophet of a soul yet more ample …
‘Take me in your arms‚ o great virgin forests‚’ he said‚ ‘and listen! And we embraced him in our dream and the voice of the singing lyre consumed everything‚ became an abyss‚ a dream and an incantation: we became a temple‚ and he a bard‚ a prophet‚ a god of harmony …’
O Bohemians of my Bohemia! Happily the curses and anathemas heaped on you for centuries have not shaken the vigilant fraternity of your true bards.
Every day the words that Keep-on-Dancin’ and the Gypsy imparted to me – theories‚ observations‚ advice and warnings – are substantiated and acquire deeper meaning.
‘It’s not for nothing there are so many bistrots in Paris‚’ Keep-on-Dancin’ asserted. ‘The reason so many people are always crowded into them isn’t so much they go there to
drink but to meet up‚ congregate‚ come together‚ comfort each other. Yes‚ comfort each other: people are bored the whole time‚ and they’re scared‚ scared of loneliness and boredom. And they all carry around in their heart of hearts their own pet little arch-fear: fear of death‚ no matter how devil- may-care they might appear to be. They’d do anything to avoid thinking about it. Don’t forget‚ it’s with that fear all temples and churches were built. So in cities like this‚ where forty different races mingle together‚ everyone can always find something to say to each other.
‘But this is something you need to know: when you find a place that suits you‚ where you decide to go back to often‚ to meet your pals there‚ if you want to feel at home and not discover some snag at the wrong moment‚ sit yourself in a corner‚ write letters‚ read‚ try and eat there‚ and watch what goes on for a whole day. At least twice during the day‚ and three times if the place is open at night‚ there’s that moment of “temporal void”. It happens every day‚ at the very same hour‚ at the very same minute‚ but it varies from place to place. People are talking‚ letting their hair down‚ having a drink together‚ and all of a sudden‚ the moment of silence: everyone turns stock still‚ with their glasses in the air‚ their eyes fixed. Immediately afterwards the hubbub resumes. But that moment when nothing’s happening – it can last five‚ ten minutes. And during that time‚ outside and everywhere else‚ for other people life goes on‚ faster‚ much faster‚ like an avalanche. If you’re prepared for it‚ and take advantage of that moment not to be fazed and to have your say‚ you’re certain to be heard‚ and if necessary even obeyed. Try it. You’ll see.’
It’s absolutely true. At Les Grilles Pataillot‚ on Rue Frédéric- Sauton‚ the first ‘temporal void’ is at 12.36. I happened to be there three weeks ago. There was Jean the mattress-maker‚ a very simple decent sort of fellow‚ and among some dozen regulars two young housewives everyone knew‚ Jeannine and Thérèse. They’re great friends and usually do their shopping together. The ‘vacant moment’ came. And during that pause Jean‚ looking at the two woman and voicing what was passing through his mind – normally not a great deal – said‚ ‘Oh‚
look! Coquette and Cocodette.’ That was all. Just a couple of words. Anyone could have said any other words. But the moment of their utterance invested those words with such weight‚ such resonance‚ they prospered. From that day on‚ throughout the entire neighbourhood‚ they were no longer Jeannine and Thérèse‚ seen together doing their shopping‚ but Coquette and Cocodette.
No one will shake my conviction that those leaders of men‚ who are in the nature of carbuncles‚ of semi-conscious abscesses‚ who draw feverish crowds to them like noxious humours‚ have an innate knowledge of arrested time. They play with those vacant moments as though at a game of chequers. A fraction of suspended‚ frozen time‚ of inert time‚ jammed like a wedge into the most wonderfully oiled cogs of the most lucid of minds: and the whole mechanism is brought crashing to the ground‚ prepared to accept any authority‚ to endorse the most monstrous aberrations‚ especially collective ones.
You have to have been present‚ as I have‚ at one of the
Licht- Dom
ceremonies to understand the Nazi phenomenon‚ to experience its sterile grandeur and to appreciate its real danger‚ which will not cease with the defeat of the Wehrmacht.
Cyril is devoting himself to developing his ‘receptive’ faculties. He now claims to be capable of distinguishing‚ more or less at a distance‚ a true Nazi from an ordinary German soldier. It’s mostly in the metro that he indulges in this little game. He picks out a Jerry with his back to him. He tries to get close. Puts out all his feelers. Makes his assessment. Then all he has to do is check. Those who were members of the Party or belonged to the Hilter Youth before 1939 wear a black-and-purple badge. Apparently he’s never wrong.
What I’ve been doing until now is not ‘adventurous’ enough for my taste. There is a danger‚ of course – it’s all about not getting caught – but it’s just the work of a clandestine bureaucrat. So I no longer take any notice of strict instructions that preclude me from any other activity apart from my official missions.
I distribute false papers as freely as handbills to anyone who asks. I hide escapees‚ parachutists. I’ve arranged for Austrian deserters to slip into the southern zone. Now I’m taking really big risks. But my luck never fails: my City’s taking care of me.
However‚ I did go a little too far in giving my address to Oscar Heisserer. He’s a guy from my regiment. We recognized each other in the street. He’s Alsatian: another five hundred metres and he’d have been German. He speaks French without an accent‚ but his mother tongue is the language of Goethe. I recall that he was not very keen on the phoney war. Once he was taken prisoner‚ he immediately became very friendly with the Jerries. A little more perhaps that was appropriate. His comrades – for whom he acted as an interpreter and ‘right-hand man’ – didn’t like him‚ and among themselves referred to him as a turncoat. Freed as a German national‚ he doesn’t fancy putting on a German uniform and being sent off to the Russian front. I made up a set of papers for him in the name of Lagarde. Census certificate‚ work permit‚ the lot. Yet I know he’s very impressed by the German ‘order’‚ very influenced – perhaps since before the war – by Nazi propaganda. He’s exactly the type to be wary of. I’ve been insanely reckless. But he’s tortured by doubt and I like to play on that.
I also have ‘my’ cops. These guys are pure gold. The most valuable‚ and he’s also a really decent bloke‚ is Jean Lecardeur. This enormously fat man has been out of uniform for at least fifteen years. He acts as an inspector at Les Halles‚ where he has the power to allocate ‘medals’ – the licences for authorized porters. He lives at Ste-Geneviève-des-Bois‚ near Brétigny‚ and every morning he brings me my liaison agents’ reports‚ as some of them actually work on the base there. Lecardeur takes care of my ‘babies’‚ as he calls them‚ providing them with fruit‚ vegetables and sometimes meat.
The other day he told me he had a problem on his hands.
He’s got mixed up with a stateless person‚ a Hungarian called Zoltan‚ who has once and for all signed his own separate peace with whoever’s fighting‚ Axis or non Axis‚ and has little desire to go and swell the ranks of Admiral Horthy’s troops.
His long and eventful wanderings through central Europe had reached their logical conclusion when in 1938 Zoltan settled in Paris‚ where he intended to lead a quiet life free of surprises. Twenty years of adventures and mixed fortunes had furnished his mind with enough memories to fill the three or four hours of blissful daydreaming Zoltan allowed himself every day‚ regardless of how convenient this might be.
Employed in a circus in his native Budapest at the age of twelve‚ Zoltan Hazai became successively an apprentice pastry-cook in Belgrade‚ the proprietor of a disreputable eating-place in Saloniki‚ a docker at Tulcea on the Danube.
He embarked on a Russian vessel and for two years stacked crates on the wharves of Odessa. After that‚ he travelled through Poland‚ northern Germany‚ and was in France when the phoney war broke out. He fell under the suspicion of the police authorities – no one quite knows why – and it was only thanks to the confusion following the German attack that he didn’t enjoy the hospitality of our own concentration camps (which‚ since the flight of the Spanish Republicans‚ will never be any credit to our country – far from it).